


A Scourge of Suitors

by HawkSong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23723428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: Nightbird Kevala has made her reputation as a traveling singer, not as the Warrior of Light; why on earth are the sons of Ishgard's elite suddenly so enamored of her?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	A Scourge of Suitors

Nidhogg was dead. Estinien was out and about again. For once, things were calm in Ishgard.

Nightbird missed the dragoon already, and he hadn't been gone but a day. She knew well his need to wander, and she respected his need to feel completely free and unfettered. His duty had weighed on him so very much – and she wasn't about to make herself, or her affection for him, into a new chain to hold him down. Haurchefant had taught her that much, in their too-brief time together.

It didn't make it easier that he never said the words she so longed to hear, though.

She stretched in the sunlight, and finished her cup of mint tea. As she set the delicate porcelain cup down, Honoroit popped his head around the door. “Ah! There you are, Mistress Nightbird!”

“Hm? And what can I do for you, young charmer?” She smiled fondly, and as always Honoroit colored a little. But he managed a smile and answered.

“There are visitors here to see you, Mistress,” he told her. “Lord Emmanellain is entertaining them in the main sitting room, and sent me to ask if you are in.”

“Why wouldn't I be in?” she wondered aloud. Honoroit's eyes gleamed, but he didn't speak.

Her ears twitched as she picked up the faint sound, now, from inside the house. Male voices. More than four of them...and she didn't recognize but one. Intrigued, she stood. “I'm here,” she decided. “Let us go see these visitors then, eh?”

She smoothed her clothes a little, and walked inside.

“Ah! The woman of the hour!” Emmanellain caroled as she stepped into the sitting room. His face was a bit flushed and something in his eyes, in his tone, hinted that he was not quite as cheerful as he may have seemed to the others in the room. Nightbird's tail curled a little as she surveyed the room.

No less than half a dozen young men – most of them in fashionable clothes similar enough to what Emmanellain wore. Someone unfamiliar with Ishgard might have taken the look for some sort of uniform, but Nightbird had sewn robes like theirs, and her eye picked out the details that told her volumes about the boys beneath the brocade.

And they were, to be sure, nothing but boys. Youngest sons, the lot of them; probably they were members of the social circle Emmanellain was so very fond of. Even the pair of fellows in more sober colors and less expensive outfits were still to be counted among the elite of the city. Every one of them regarded her with an eager hopefulness that made a tickle of worry thread along her back, and the almost frantic look Emmanellain was giving her from behind their backs didn't help.

She raised her eyebrows, and her bard training kicked in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of such rare and charming company?” she asked them all.

Instantly the lot of them converged on her, and in less than three sentences her suspicions were confirmed.

She let them babble for a time, keeping her expression politely surprised yet maintaining a sense of distance; with subtle shifts of her weight and posture she kept them just at arm's length.

Eventually they wound down a bit, and looked to her, their eyes still full of a puppy like adoration. Not one of them had breathed the word “engagement,” but their chatter might as well have been nothing more than a series of propositions.

She wondered if the well bred young ladies of the city would be overwhelmed by this...display. Maybe, maybe not. Some few of them had to have seen it before, though. Posturing in the name of so-called courtship...

For her own part, “overwhelmed” was not the word that applied. She was dismayed, and somewhat disgruntled. These young men had turned their noses up at her, at the few social gatherings she'd attended in her time here. Their parents had thought her nothing but an upstart, a ruffian – a sell-sword at best and a filthy whore at worst; and the behavior of their sons had echoed that. But now, _now_ they just couldn't praise her enough.

She spoke, and let her power braid through her words and her voice. Just a touch of unease, a hint of the uncanny – the merest flavor of threat. “Young lords, you flatter me most outrageously,” she purred. “So outrageously, it must be said, that one would think you believe me a complete fool.”

She swayed a single step closer to them all. “Was it not you, young master Dzemael, that likened me to a polecat just a week ago?” The young lord flinched and eased back, his eyes blank with shock. She continued. “And you – ah yes, I recall well how dear Lord Felipe thought to whisper such...sweet things in my ear that same night. Sweet things such as monetary offers of the crudest sort. Quite enough to make any maiden blush and stammer, I do avow.”

Another flinch, and now all of them seemed to have trouble breathing; necks beginning to flush, eyes darting from her to each other and then away again.

She let the merest edge of her true feelings show, her smile as sharp as a razor.

“Truly, I can barely manage a word myself,” she crooned, “and I am hardly a maiden as you all have noted many times in the past. A most wonderful change has taken place! So amazing a reversal of my fortunes to thus be so...desirable.”

She leaned in, knowing her tunic would expose a tantalizing curve of breast, and watched them all swallow hard and stare. Only three of them bothered to actually drag their gazes back to her face.

“How unfortunate for you, then,” she told them, “that you are bound to be disappointed in me. I must refuse your so-kind offers.”

“But – why, my lady?” Lord Felipe was the one to ask, though his ear tips were red. As he had been one of the ones able to stop staring at her decolletage, Nightbird answered him.

“Not one of you could keep up with me in the bedroom,” she told him, dropping all pretense at “lady like” behavior and tone. “All twelve of you together couldn't satisfy my needs of a night. My race isn't one to deny our instincts, our needs – and we don't _marry_.” Mostly true – her kind didn't regard marriage quite the way most other cultures did, and the details didn't matter. These boys would leap to their own conclusions, which was enough to serve her purposes.

As if she'd uttered the foulest curse they'd ever heard, all of them recoiled from her. She straightened and watched with thinly veiled amusement as they variously stuttered, stammered, and took their leave, until the room was quiet and held only herself, Honoroit, and Emmanellain.

“A bee in every bonnet,” she chuckled.

Emmanellain regarded her with wide eyes, his lips clamped tightly. “I cannot _believe_ you just did that.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What? Chased the lot of puppies off? They were fools, and you know it as well as I do. I'd sooner marry... _you_.”

Honoroit burst out laughing, and clapped both his hands over his mouth. Emmanellain scowled at his manservant. “How nice,” he growled.

“Well, you at least have a brain in that pretty head of yours. Honestly, if you _didn't_ want me chasing them off, why bother letting them in at all?”

His mouth twisted a little. “Well...I did want you to chase them off, it's true. Just...you were more crude than I would have expected.”

“With that lot,” Nightbird's laugh was quiet, “only being that crude would have worked.”

Emmanellain had to nod. “I suppose you're right. Oh, do stop _snickering_ , Honoroit. We have a dinner to prepare for, you know.”

“Who is the lovely lady for tonight?” Nightbird asked with a small smile.

“Actually,” and Emmanellain smiled back, “this time it's several of my smarter friends. I expect I'll endure quite a barrage of questions about my _eligible_ big sister. But I shall do my best to deflect their hopes.”

Nightbird's eyes half shut, pleased. “Thank you. Really. I don't know what's gotten into all the young hot-heads of Ishgard in the last couple of days – but it's already tiresome.”

The young lord gave her a small bow, and left the room.

Nightbird considered for a moment, and decided to take a short walk. There was a high promenade on the eastern side of the city, and the lilacs were blooming. Perhaps their sweet scent would take some of the bitterness out of her new...status in the eyes of the social elite.

She never even made it to the lilac garden.

Her breath rasped in her throat as she dodged into a side alley. She could hear the thud of boots behind her. Unbelievable! The damned thug was still following her and they were in the Pillars now! Maybe she should have turned and spitted him on her dagger back in the Brume.

Too late now; she wouldn't shed blood up here, where too many questions would be asked.

Just ahead of her was a gate, standing slightly open. She scurried to it, through it, and clicked it shut, then dove for a corner that would give her cover from anyone looking through the wrought iron. Only briefly did she register the whisper of grass beneath her feet, the brush of leaves against her as she hunkered down, tail tucked tightly in, ears flat, behind a conveniently large slab of pale marble.

Out in the alley she heard the boots thudding along. Her ears twitched as the boots paused, and she could just see a pair of hands close around the wrought iron bars of the gate. All her fur slicked down with tension as she imagined the bloodshot, half-crazy eyes glaring around trying to catch a glimpse of her. But instead of rattling the bars, there was only a muttered curse, and then the hands vanished, and the boots were off again, running farther along the alley.

She'd lost the hunter, thank the Twelve.

For minutes, she simply stayed put, ears twitching at any slight sound in the alley, and getting her breathing back to normal. But finally, she felt safe enough to stand up again.

“Can I help you, miss?”

She let out a startled yowl, tail stiff and brushed out, spinning to face the voice that spoke.

The old Elezen man took a half step back, his brows knitting as he frowned at her. “You are trespassing,” he began, then paused, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

Nightbird dragged in a deep breath. “Sorry. I was...avoiding someone.”

“You are...Kevala, are you not?”

“Nightbird Kevala, yes, that's me.” She ducked her head, smoothing down her short skirt and trying to keep her ears from going flat with embarrassment. “I truly didn't mean to intrude.”

“Might I ask why you felt the need to...avoid someone in such a manner?”

She was abruptly glad that her skin was so dark that no one would notice her blushing if they didn't know her extremely well.

“There was a man who...” She bared her fangs a little. “I shall simply say, he had a most unwelcome idea of passing the time, and I thought escape a better option than violence.”

The old man's eyes narrowed. “Are you injured?”

“Oh, Twelve, no,” she lifted her hands. “He never got the chance to hurt me. I just...didn't want to deal with his...his nonsense.”

“Forgive me, but you seem quite distressed,” the old man said after a moment. “Would you care to come inside?”

“Oh, but I couldn't...I mean...trespassing and all that.”

His smile was sudden and very charming. “Consider yourself invited, miss Kevala.”

She met his eyes, and saw kindness there. Her tail fur relaxed and she nodded. “Well...I wouldn't object to sitting for a moment. Just to catch my breath, you know.”

Inside, the house was modestly decorated, but the materials were of the highest quality. Nightbird glanced around the well-appointed water-closet as she washed her hands, and then noticed the recurring color theme – blue and gold. House Borel.

She stepped out into the hall, and looked up at the elderly gentleman. “I feel a great deal better already,” she began, but he gave her a small frown before she could get to the point of making her excuses.

“It is nearly meal time,” he said, “and my lord will be home soon. I feel certain that he will wish to speak with you.”

“But...” Her ears swiveled back for a moment with dismay, then she sighed. “If you truly wish me to stay, I will stay, but I wouldn't think Ser Aymeric would have concern over one adventurer's, ah, misadventure.”

The old man's mouth twitched at her word-play, and he gestured, indicating a door across the hallway. “Please, come sit.”

So she sat down in the comfortable, but not spacious, kitchen, at a table big enough to hold eight, though only four chairs were in place. She watched, listening, and learned thus that the older man was Jarilant, the steward of the house; and the cook was Milinne – a matronly older lady, who seemed a little uncertain about Nightbird's presence.

She wasn't too sure about her presence here, either. She'd worked with Ser Aymeric in the past, though she was fairly certain he would have forgotten her. She had hardly been taking the lead on anything then – just another sell-sword among many, helping fend off dragons on the Steps of Faith. Even now, she wasn't in the spotlight as what she truly was – a Warrior of Light – but rather as a traveling songstress. What would the noble lord have to say about a rather scruffy minstrel sitting down to tea in his kitchen?

She flicked her black hair back over her shoulder and sipped from the mug of water Milinne gave her. Her sensitive ears caught the sound of a door opening and quiet footsteps in the hall. So she was looking at the doorway when Aymeric stepped into the kitchen.

The first thing she noticed was how exhausted he looked. Estinien had said that too many people had worried over him while he lay abed...Aymeric must have been among that “too many.” And of course the maddening man would never admit to liking being worried over...She pulled her attention back to the Elezen in front of her.

Aymeric had begun to smile at his cook, but the smile had faltered when he noticed Nightbird sitting at the table. He regarded her with raised eyebrows for only a heartbeat before Jarilant spoke up. “This is Miss Kevala, my lord. I invited her to take a bit of tea with us.”

Aymeric's eyes flickered to the steward, then back to Nightbird. “I see.” Then he seemed to do a double take. “Wait, _Nightbird_ Kevala?”

“The same,” she nodded. “It is good to meet you, Ser Aymeric.”

“What, do you not recall meeting me before this?”

It was her turn for raised eyebrows. “I am most surprised to hear that _you_ recall it, sir.”

He chuckled. “Not surprising at all, given that you are also one of the most famous musicians in Eorzea at present. What brings you to Ishgard?”

“A number of things,” she shrugged, “but in part, a request from House Fortemps. Count Edmont had need of me.”

“Ah, I see. Well,” he gave her a very small bow, “excuse me for one moment, and we'll all eat.”

And he stepped back out into the hall, while Milinne and Jarilant exchanged glances.

“What?” Nightbird asked.

Jarilant opened his mouth, and Milinne elbowed him. “Nothing, miss,” the cook told her, with a mild frown at the steward, who was plainly hiding a laugh. Nightbird watched them for a moment, then shrugged and finished her water.

She sat and let them handle setting the table, feeling it the better part of valor to stay out of the way. Milinne clearly had a specific way she handled her kitchen, and having an extra body in the way was only going to delay the food, not help out much.

Tea – and coffee as well – and a truly astonishing amount of cakes and pastries and sweet biscuits – Nightbird's eyes widened at the amount of food that lay spread across the table before Aymeric returned to the kitchen.

He walked back through the door, his gloves and gold-bedecked coat gone. Nightbird hid her stare under her lashes. Why on earth did so many Ishgardian men insist on wearing pants so tight that one could nearly see the outline of their small-clothes beneath the fabric? Not that she minded, when thighs like Aymeric's were being shown off to such good effect. But it could be a most distracting fashion choice. Even Count Edmont looked ridiculously good in them.

Once he sat at the table, she was able to drag her attention back to his face, at least.

He was surveying the food with a small smile of anticipation. “Oh, you were able to find the lemon tarts at last, Milinne!” He smiled at the cook as the older woman took a chair beside him. Nightbird glanced at Jarilant as he sat down next to her, and smiled a little.

“Shari finally made another batch without selling out of them within an hour,” Milinne answered him with a small laugh. “I declare, someone was practically sitting outside her patisserie just waiting for the scent of lemons.”

Conversation after that was, for a few minutes, restricted to simple requests for more of this, two lumps or one, and similar phrases. Nightbird was grateful for the little lobster rolls and delicate – but tasty – cucumber sandwiches. They were nearly the only things on the table not loaded with masses of sugar. But Aymeric devoured enough for two people, as if he hadn't eaten all day. Cup after cup of tea and coffee, too, to wash down tarts and cookies alike. Nightbird watched him, fascinated by this boyish side of the quiet commander.

Presently, the tea things had been well and truly decimated, and Aymeric sat back with a last cup of coffee – liberally laden with cream and yet more sugar – and sighed, his eyes drifting shut in an expression of pure contentment.

Nightbird licked her lips a little, struck by the notion that perhaps Estinien had seen such an expression on Aymeric's face before.

Then Jarilant spoke, and yanked her attention away from that fascinating chain of thought.

“Are you able to remain home for the evening, my lord?”

“Despite everything, yes.” Aymeric opened his eyes, and drank his coffee. “I still don't know where Estinien went, and there are those who wish to demand that I locate him. But tomorrow's the first official convocation of both Houses, and I refuse to divert my energy away from that.”

“You should get as much rest as you can,” Milinne put in. “You'll need your strength, my lord. I can't imagine it will be an easy day for you, even if you shan't need your sword.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Aymeric laughed a little, “you haven't seen the sort of tantrums some of these old men can throw. I don't doubt that blades will be drawn at least once tomorrow.”

“I have no doubt that you will soothe all with your words and wisdom,” Nightbird said.

Aymeric's eyes met hers and a delicate hint of blush flowered in his cheeks. “You flatter me overmuch.” He shook his head. “I have no illusions. I couldn't win a war of words with my father, and I am yet inexperienced in certain sorts of...verbal fencing.”

Nightbird chose her words carefully. “I am given to understand that the archbishop was not one to allow any conflict to arise in which he had not first secured the victory.”

Aymeric huffed a little. “To use the words of a friend, he cheated.” Then he finished his coffee, and set down his cup. “Enough of such talk, however. Might I be so bold as to ask that you stay for dinner, miss Kevala?”

Nightbird's ears twitched and her tail flipped into a curve of surprise. “Oh?”

“I confess, I would very much like to spend some time speaking with you.” The blush blossomed further. “I have followed your musical endeavors with interest, you see...”

She blinked at him, and a smile slowly stretched her lips. Aymeric de Borel as a blushing fan of hers? Quite charming, almost as intoxicating in its way as Estinien's so-elusive smile.

“I would be delighted to so indulge you, Ser Aymeric.”

Thirty minutes, somehow, the topic had changed from music – or even her past performances – to something much more personal. Nightbird regarded Aymeric with her ears flat. “I beg your pardon?”

“I promise, I have not set spies on you,” he said earnestly. “I received a note, however, mentioning that you were struggling with this.”

“I would hardly call it a struggle to redirect the very foolish,” she huffed in annoyance. “Who on earth would bother you with such a minor problem?”

He held her gaze steadily for a moment as her tail lashed. “A certain dragoon,” he said at last.

Her tail popped straight up for a moment, and she grabbed the end of it and put it in her lap, trying to hide its too-expressive wriggling. “Estinien.”

“He had a suggestion as well...” Aymeric regarded her warily, as if she might bite him.

She took a deep breath, and forced herself to close her lips. She hadn't even noticed she was baring her fangs at him. “Knowing Estinien,” she tried to sound casual and amused, “it's something outrageous, like telling you to pretend to marry me.”

The look on his face made her lose her fragile hold on her temper. “He _did_ suggest that?” She stood up and started to pace, her tail thrashing. “The nerve of that man! _Oh!_ Twelve help him when I get my hands on him again...!” She was, for a moment, so angry she couldn't even see.

Estinien knew how she felt about him! How could he even _suggest_ a pretense like this one?!

Suddenly hands had her shoulders, and she shook her head, blinking rapidly to clear it.

Aymeric stood in front of her, and she looked up at him, vaguely noticing how warm his hands were even through the leather of her bolero.

“Calm yourself. It was only a suggestion.”

She pulled away. “I need some air.”

He regarded her for a moment, his blue eyes looking a little hurt. Then he led her, silently, to a glass door. “This is my garden,” he said, opening the door.

She nodded and stepped through. “Just...I need a little time.”

“Of course. I won't be far.”

The door clicked shut, and she didn't look back.

She paced across the garden, from one corner to the other, oblivious to the flowers and architecture. Just because she was, for whatever daft reason, considered quite the most eligible woman in Ishgard just now, did not mean she needed to be rescued.

“Well, I wouldn't have expected to find you here already,” a voice drawled from above her.

She stopped in her tracks and looked straight up. Perching on a stanchion just inside the glass roof, he grinned down at her, like a demented attempt at placing a gargoyle.

“Get down here, you son of a bitch.”

He leaped down, landing lightly, and as he straightened she stalked up to him, fists curled.

“How dare you?” she hissed. “I know you've taken a lot of head injuries, Estinien, but this is beyond acceptable – this, this suggestion of yours! What were you thinking?!”

“What? It seemed to me you needed a hand.” He smirked at her.

She swung her arm back to slap him, but he caught her wrist, and then caught the other when she attempted a second time, and held her arms apart, so that her breasts crushed against him.

She lifted her foot and stomped down hard on his toes.

“Ow! Hey!”

“I'm not playing around, damn you, Estinien.” Her eyes flashed, her tail whipped back and forth. “I'm well able to defend my own honor – if I cared about it in the first place – and none of the noble sons of Ishgard who've so far thrown themselves at my feet are worth a whisker of worry.”

“So?”

“So why in the name of the Twelve would you ever suggest such a – such a – _stupid_ plan?”

“I can't worry about you?”

“I thought you didn't want to be _tied down_ ,” she snapped, trying to pull away. His grip on her wrists tightened, hurting her a little. “Is it that you want it both ways? To care but not have to do any of the work to show that fact? Do you expect poor Aymeric to somehow take care of the _chore_ of showing me real affection?”

“Shut up,” he growled. “That isn't what I meant by this at all, little bird.”

“Then what did you mean?! And let me go, damn it.”

“No.” His silver eyes were abruptly fierce. “No, I won't let you go. No, I don't want it both ways, whatever you mean by that. I don't want anyone else to have you.”

She stilled, her eyes wide. But her ears were still flat to her head and her tail still lashed. “You made it clear you didn't want me that way,” she said, her tone low and dangerous. “Lovers, you said, and _nothing more_. No ties, you said. No complications, no holding each other back.”

Her heart pounded, and she could feel his pulse racing as well. Their encounters seemed always to carry a hint of anger – hells! Half the time they started out arguing and ended up in each other's arms...even now she could feel the desire waking up inside of her, warming her.

He glared at her and she matched his glare without flinching. “What are you so afraid of, dragoon?”

A breeze wafted across them and his silver hair fluttered.

“Unhand her, Estinien. I won't have you harming my guest in my own garden. I'm already quite upset with you as it is.”

The two of them broke apart as Aymeric walked up, his arms crossed. To Nightbird's surprise, Estinien's ears went pink and he looked away from the other Elezen.

Nightbird's growing lust stuttered and then coiled, sullen and watchful, as she watched the lord commander approach.

Aymeric came to a stop within touching distance of the two of them. “You left without a word,” he said, his eyes seeming to rest on the dragoon's shoulder. “I thought you'd outgrown that sort of rudeness.”

Nightbird heard Estinien's breath catch, and her eyes ranged from one man to the other, widening a little. Her tail curled a little, her anger forgotten in a flash of speculation. That these two had known each other...she'd known about that. But just how well had they known each other?

“I came to visit you.” Estinien's voice was quiet. “I didn't know she was here.”

Nightbird stepped back, a little stung. But before she could open her mouth, Estinien's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist again.

“Don't. Don't go.”

Her amber eyes fixed on his silver ones, and his cheeks reddened a tiny bit. “...please,” he whispered. “Don't leave.”

“Why?”

His lips tightened, his shoulders went stiff, and yet she didn't release him from her gaze.

But Aymeric spoke and broke their concentration.

“Let us take this discussion inside.”

She sighed deeply as Estinien released her, and followed the lord commander into the house. For a moment she considered just leaving. She could find her way to the back courtyard in no time. She could let the two men have whatever “discussion” they wanted, and take herself back to her little guest room at House Fortemps.

But the desire was still awake, and the fascination of exploring – whatever she could with both of these handsome, charming men...

She went inside.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was in part inspired and enabled by  
> Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club  
> Please come and join if you've a mind to do so!  
> https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj


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